Domestics
by Winter Sapphire
Summary: She knows that kind of shouting. That's his 'Amy is definitely going to kill me' shouting. Five times Amy catches the Doctor being "domestic".


_five times Amy catches the Doctor being "domestic" for big_jumps on LJ :) Not to be confused with my Rose/Doctor fic "I Don't Do Domestics"._

* * *

_one_

The TARDIS is quiet. Too quiet, Amy Pond decides, for all of the excitable energy the Doctor constantly emits. There's no tinkering going on in the console room, none of his footsteps echoing in the walls, and certainly none of that brilliant, alien voice babbling away in the hallways.

Then she smells it.

Amy's not sure what it is at first- it's faint, hardly noticeable, but it strikes her senses in the oddest possible fashion. It overwhelms her with emotion, and tears spring unbidden to her eyes, and she just _has_ to follow it, because somehow the scent actually seems to be _dragging_ her in one particular direction.

And then she sees him, and she forgets about the peculiar smell almost instantly because he's standing with an apron tied around his waist, covered head to toe in something Amy can only guess at. The Doctor scrubs furiously at his bow tie, stained a milky off-white instead of its regular blue.

"Doctor?" She can't help but laugh, and his gaze flicks up to her quickly before turning itself back to the scrubbing.

"Busy, Amy! I have to get this out before it dries!"

"Were you _baking_?" Amy laughs again, and the Doctor stops to fix her with an exasperated glare. He probably means it to look intimidating, but he's got splotches of flour all over his face and it really only makes her laugh more.

"What's wrong with baking?" He sounds defensive. "Baking's cool. Newtrop fruit flour, however, is not. It can stain _anything_." And he's back to scrubbing the bow tie, hard enough that Amy's afraid he's going to end up tearing it before he can even get the flour out. She can see the stuff clumping and hardening on his hands, and she arches an eyebrow.

"Anything, including your skin?"

The Doctor pauses again, eyes widening. "Oh." He looks at his hands curiously. "Ah." Turns them over and over. "Right."

He stares forlornly at his bow tie for a second longer, in a silent sort of mourning, before spinning around and tossing it dismissively over his shoulder.

"I think I need a nice, long soak. Barring any of the food becoming sentient, don't you dare bother me for the next two hours, Pond!"

He strides off into the hallway, and the oven pings.

_two_

He's collapsed in the chair in the console room, his head lolling over the railing in a way that will surely leave a crick in his neck come morning- or maybe afternoon, or evening. Whatever time it is now isn't exactly clear to Amy Pond, because she's wide awake.

She'd been beginning to think that he never slept at all. He's always been awake whenever she's seen him, and it's been suspicious, very suspicious, that he's always had so much energy and yet he never seems to sleep.

A smile plays across Amy's lips; it all made so much more sense now.

"Ohh, look at you!" she coos quietly, sneaking towards him on the tips of her toes. "Big, powerful time lord, all asleep on a cushy chair."

She's reaching to move some hair out of the Doctor's eyes when she sees the creases on his face, deep and aged like they had been carved out by the hand of time itself. Amy can see his age- those 907 years of pain and love and hope and grief and loss and adventure and the _universe_- written on his face as plain as day.

Amy's not sure if she's ever seen anybody's emotions so bared as his are right now.

She blinks back tears and watches him until he wakes.

_three_

"Ohhhh, no! No, no, no, no, _no_!"

The Doctor's panicked shouts echo throughout the TARDIS. They echo past the anti-gravity chamber, past the (never-used) drawing room, past the wardrobe, past the room with scale replicas of important universal monuments, and even past the room he's filled with pillows. It echoes all the way through the TARDIS until it reaches the outskirts of Amy's room, and her blood runs cold.

She knows that kind of shouting.

That's his 'Amy is definitely going to kill me' shouting.

Oh, god, hadn't he said something about laundry earlier?

"_Doctor!_"

Amy sprints off her bed and down the hallways, turning left, then right, then straight, straight, and another left, and another right, and _there's_ the laundry room and there's the Doctor, whacking a washer with a spanner.

"No, _no_, you're not supposed to _do_ that!"

"Doctor? _What_ are you doing?"

The Doctor whirls around to face her, dropping the spanner to the floor with a clatter. He actually looks scared- an expression Amy's sure she's never seen on his face before.

"Amy! Hello! Nothing! Yes! How do you feel about orange?"

"Orange?" Amy folds her arms and frowns at him. "What d'you mean, oran..." she trails off, eyes widening in realisation. "Oh. Oh, please don't tell me you tried to use the washing machine all on your own." He shoots her a sheepish look, and Amy groans, "Doctor, you have a sentient time machine for a reason."

"But I can't _always_ have her do the laundry. She does enough already, she deserves a break from having to do the domestics. Besides, the clothes are... well, they _are_ clean."

"Just orange," Amy quips, and the Doctor grins at her, stepping aside so she can see the pile of clothes that are, in fact, stained quite orange indeed.

"At least they'll match your hair."

_four_

Amy flops down unceremoniously on half of the library's love seat, and the entire chair bounces. The Doctor doesn't even budge, he's so absorbed in whatever it is he's reading- she looks carefully at the cover, but it's covered only in strange symbols that the TARDIS can't, or maybe refuses to, translate.

For the longest time he doesn't move an inch- he just sits, still, stiller than Amy's ever seen him, still enough that she almost wants to smack him on the back just to make sure he's still actually breathing.

She's nearly decided to do just that when he finally speaks, sounding more than amused, "Are you going to just sit there all day without saying hi?" He licks his fingers and carefully turns a page to the right.

"Hi," Amy says, but he's absorbed back into the worn book with its worn pages like it's sacred and holy- and, well, as far as she knows, it _could_ be. She can't help but notice how incredibly attractive he looks, with that intent, concentrated look on his face, and Amy clears her throat.

"_Doc-tooor_," she sing-songs, exaggerating her accent in that way she knows annoys him- he can never ignore her when she uses that voice. She presses her heels into his thigh, kneading at it with her toes.

The Doctor rolls his eyes and picks up her feet with one hand, holding them against his stomach firmly.

"Amy," he admonishes lightly, waving the book in the air. "Reading."

"I'm bored," Amy groans, flexing her feet against the scratchy tweed material of the inside of his jacket.

"You're in a time machine with more rooms in it than ten Buckingham Palaces," he reminds her, holding the book with one hand while keeping her feet hostage with the other. "You can find _something_ to do, I'm sure." The Doctor turns his attention back to the book, a frown crossing over his face when he realises he can't turn the page without letting go of her.

"Nothing's fun without you." Amy smiles at the him innocently, and that does it- the Doctor finally sighs and sets the book down.

"Oh, alright, _fine_. But be imaginative, Pond!" He points at her accusingly and pushes her feet off of his lap. "This had better be worth it."

Amy grins, bouncing excitedly as she pulls him by the hand out of the library. "Isn't it always, Doctor?"

Later, as they're running from a giant, mechanical spider in Ancient Egypt, the Doctor agrees with a whoop of glee and terror: "Yes!- yes, yes it is!"

_five_

Amy has no idea what the _hell_ that thing is, but it's huge, it's purple and blue and black, and the Doctor's already halfway inside of it and only going in deeper.

She shrieks and darts forward, grabbing his feet and hauling him out faster than she can blink. He slips out of it far too easily, sending them both tumbling backwards and landing in a tangled heap on the ground. A watering pail spills over them both, soaking them through.

Wait a minute. Amy blinks. A watering pail?

"Doctor," she grumbles at him, pushing at the shoulders uncomfortably digging into her collarbone. "Gerroff."

He coughs, rolling off her and landing on his side. The Doctor pushes himself up by an elbow, shaking his head and spraying water everywhere.

"What'd you go and do that for? Do you know how hard it is to water nishhë plants? Now I have to start all over again! You have to get their innermost buds or else they'll just keep on growing! I'm trying to get this one down in size. It won't. Let. Up!"

"It looked like it was eating you!" Amy defends, pushing herself up to her feet. "I thought I was saving your life."

"Amy," the Doctor smiles at her in a way that makes her feel like she's very, definitely human and he picks up the water pail. "Next time, leave the rescuing to m-aaah!"

Amy catches him as he nearly slips on the water, and a smirk crosses her face.

"You were saying?"

The Doctor scoffs, and tugs her hand with his.

"Come along, Pond. Let me teach you how to properly fertilise singing finch blossoms."


End file.
